


Her Tomb Was Carved Of Alabaster

by Harp_of_Gold



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: ALL THE ANGST, Anal Sex, Angst, Anxiety, Avari Customs, Celebrimbor in Gondolin, Costume Parties & Masquerades, Everything Hurts and Nothing is Wonderful, Finger Sucking, Grief/Mourning, Halloween, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Lots of talk about death, M/M, Maeglin has a whole bundle of issues okay?, Maeglin's thoughts about Idril aren't always...nice, Making Out, Obsession, Oral Sex, Self-Loathing, Spit As Lube, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, Unrequited Love, as in Eöl gets mentioned, hopelessness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-29
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:29:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27270469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Harp_of_Gold/pseuds/Harp_of_Gold
Summary: It's Halloween (sort of) in Gondolin. Maeglin spends the night caught between remembering the customs of his childhood and trying to hold himself together in the face of Idril's disregard. Tyelpë makes everything better.
Relationships: Celebrimbor | Telperinquar/Maeglin | Lómion, unrequited Maeglin/Idril
Comments: 14
Kudos: 33





	Her Tomb Was Carved Of Alabaster

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for inspiration goes to:
> 
> Mary Shelley, for getting laid on her mother's grave,
> 
> and ChrissyStriped, whose awesome story [Stranger in the Forest](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26618308/chapters/64903105) got me thinking about Avari customs around grief and death. (And how the Noldor would have at least started out sorely lacking in that regard.)

The air was crisp and cool, and outside the open balcony doors, dead leaves rattled in the wind. Gondolin had gathered to celebrate the end of a bountiful harvest, but for Maeglin, it would always be the time to acknowledge the dead as the year faded. One of the few good memories he had of his father was standing with him to light candles in the windows and set out cakes with milk and honey for any wandering spirits on the way to the Dark Judge's halls. Together with his mother they'd recited the names of all those they'd lost, and if Aredhel’s murmured names had taken a peculiarly Quenya lilt, it was the one time Eöl wouldn't mention it. Maeglin had no names of his own then, but he had them now, and he whispered them quietly into the night. Even Eöl's. 

Sighing, Maeglin turned away from the sickle Moon to the party humming inside and caught his breath. Idril had entered. She was radiant in a golden gown, her hair falling loose around her shoulders and crowned with a rayed halo, a golden fruit in her hand. The Sun. How fitting. Lords and ladies flocked around her, and she smiled brilliantly. Her laugh floated up to where he watched, and he ached to have that smile granted him. He should go down and offer his respects soon, but he didn't want to do it in the middle of that crowd. He needed a moment of her attention undivided for him and the words he'd thought about all week. He'd be careful, restrained. He didn't want to be a nuisance. Just to remind her that he could be _enjoyable,_ if she'd give him another chance. 

Should he ask for a dance right away? She'd be polite and let him have one, he knew, but he shouldn’t look for another. That would be pushy, and he _wasn't_ being pushy. He needed her to want more of him, not to feel like she had to turn him down. So one dance would be all he could hope for. He’d have to choose carefully. If he had only the space of one dance to savor her hands in his, her eyes so near… Of course that presupposed that he'd be able to speak to her at all. Ever since he’d first confessed his feelings and been rejected, he'd found it harder and harder. Sometimes he thought his silence would devour him.

“Maeglin! I've been looking for you!” 

He jumped a little and turned, looking right into Celebrimbor’s kind eyes. His friend's robes were covered with shiny paper-maché cubes that overlapped and intersected in a familiar crystalline pattern. Maeglin snorted. “Pyrite? Really? Can't pull your head out of the forge for one night?”

Tyelpë broke into a wide grin. “You're the first person to actually get it! Everyone else keeps asking if I'm a mountain range.”

Maeglin rolled his eyes and gave Tyelpë a little smile of his own. “Idiots. You look perfect.”

“So do you. I hardly recognized you with your face paint. It suits you, eerily enough. Isn't it a bit morbid for this crowd, though?”

Maeglin glanced down at his black clothing, on which each of his bones was painted in stark white. His hair was drawn back in a single braid, and he’d painted his face as a skull, dark hollows around his eyes obscuring the purple shadows that plagued him from all the nights he couldn't rest. He shrugged. “I thought about dressing as some half-rotted necromantic monstrosity, but I figured that really wouldn't help my reputation. So it's kind of an improvement? Only like a third of the damage.” Tyelpë laughed, and that gave him the courage to share more. “When I was a child, my father told me his people's stories, that the dead are nearest us this night, and dark things that were before Angband walk abroad. I had little love for him, but…I don't want to forget what I know of my people. I might not belong to that world, but I don’t belong here either. And the forest felt more like a home.”

“Is it all right to put an arm around you? I don't want to smudge your costume.”

“It's fine. You won't.” He moved closer and leaned against Tyelpë gladly.

“Atar used to say home is something you have to make for yourself. I'm not sure he'd ever quite managed it though. I know I haven't felt at home since we left Aman, and I doubt it would feel the same if I could go back. I'm different now. We never thought of death there.”

“You wouldn't, I suppose.”

“I'm determined to have a home someday.”

Maeglin scoffed. “Not here in this cage of a city.”

“No. But these days won't last forever.”

“Of course not. One day Morgoth will catch up to us and it will all be over. You were at the battle, same as me. You know we can't win.” Tyelpë’s eyes tightened, and Maeglin silently cursed himself. Even if it was true, it wasn't _helpful,_ and he knew there were better things to do than dwell on it. His fingers itched for his hammer and the comforting exhaustion of forging yet another sword.

But Tyelpë smiled, softly and wryly. “In that case, my skeleton prince, may I have a dance before we die?”

Maeglin looked out over the ballroom and quickly found Idril. She was chatting with a tight knot of admirers. He thought that Man was among them. He ought to go pull her away from him somehow. That couldn't go anywhere good.

“Maeglin?”

He shook himself. He probably couldn't have made himself walk up to her anyway. “Sorry. I’d like that.”

Tyelpë was quiet as he led Maeglin down the wide stairs to the dance floor, and Maeglin hoped he hadn't hurt him too much. _I told him who owns my heart,_ he reassured himself. _It's his own fault if he didn't listen._ But he usually tried to be more circumspect. He was failing at everything tonight. Someone hissed “Half-orc!” under their breath behind him, and Maeglin almost tripped over the long tail of a snow leopard—Ecthelion, he thought, but didn't pause to be sure. Tyelpë steadied him, and they took their places for the next dance. The music began, and Maeglin froze, the slur forgotten. It was a slow dance, meant for couples. 

“You all right?”

 _This is fine. It's fine. It doesn't mean anything. If Idril sees, she'll only think I'm having a good time and not obsessing over her. It's fine._ “Yeah, I got distracted.” He stepped in the pattern of the dance, accepting Tyelpë's hand on his hip. “Sorry I'm such poor company tonight.”

“It’s not your fault people won't leave you alone. And it’s hard to relax and have fun with so much hanging over our heads. I get it.” Tyelpë bit his lip, and Maeglin wanted to kiss him and take that soft, sweet mouth for his own. If he couldn't have a few years of bliss with Idril before their doom, he'd at least have this. “I think it matters that much more, that we snatch what happiness we can and throw it in the teeth of darkness.”

Maeglin nodded and let the other dancers fade around him. Tyelpë was graceful and light-footed, and moving in tune with his body, feeling how well they moved together, was always a pleasure. He was starting to think the night wasn't going so badly when he caught sight of Idril with Tuor. _Kissing_ him. The world fell out from under him. He felt sick. With a tiny whimper, he stepped forward and rested his forehead on Tyelpë's shoulder. He briefly calculated the cost of making a huge scene, but he already knew he wouldn't do it. He fought not to burst into tears. “Tyelpë? I'm really not enjoying this party. Can we just…?”

Tyelpë glanced behind him and sighed. “Yeah. Let's get out of here.”

Maeglin clutched Tyelpë's arm too hard as he led him out of the ballroom. “You know you're my best friend, right? The best friend I've ever had. I'm sorry I'm like this. I don't like it; I don't like _me;_ I wouldn't blame you if you—but—please don't hate me for ruining your night, I'm sorry—” 

They were outside now, and the cold air and the quiet helped. The buzz of all those people had gotten under his skin, and as their voices faded, he could breathe more deeply again. Tyelpë let him babble until he ran out of words and wrapped his arms around himself, ashamed and jealous and scraped raw inside.

“I'm not going to pretend it doesn't hurt sometimes to watch you mooning over her the way you do,” Tyelpë said at last. “But part of the hurt is how miserable it makes _you._ I care about you a lot, and I want to see you happy. I am your friend, and you’re not going to lose me because you're sad and angry about something you can't change, all right?”

Maeglin made a small sound of acknowledgement and allowed Tyelpë to hug him. Dried seed heads that had been left for the birds rustled as they wandered through the palace gardens. By night they seemed a different world, full of the ghosts of vanished flowers where only stem and stalk remained. “You can talk to me, Maeglin, if you want. I may not have great advice, but I can always listen.”

“You're the only one I can talk to. About the things I really care about, anyway. I don't want to talk about her. You've put up with enough tonight already.” Maeglin's footsteps carried them at last to the silent inner courtyard where his mother had been laid to rest beneath an alabaster monument. She was carved as if she lay there asleep, her features softly covered by a veil that draped so lightly it was easy to believe the stone could be grasped and pulled away. Around the base her horse and hounds chased a white deer, but the saddle remained forever empty. There was no reminder of Eöl. 

Maeglin turned his back to the tomb and slid down to sit on the dead grass. “I used to come here all the time when I was younger. To sit and read or study or work on drawings and wax models. I’d talk to her, sometimes.”

Tyelpë pulled off his decorated outer robe and sat beside him, and Maeglin snuggled into his warmth. “You said your father's people believed the dead are close tonight.”

“Scary stories for children. I don't know. It was important to my father to remember them, but I don't think he really believed they were there. It was just a way for him to honor them.”

“What about your grandparents?”

“His parents were dead long before I was born. I never knew any of them. On either side.”

“I'm sorry.”

Maeglin shrugged. “At least I didn't have to live through losing them.” A tear glinted on Tyelpë's cheek, and Maeglin kissed it away. “Sorry.”

“I'm glad I knew him. He taught me so much. He gave me my first hammer, when I was… _so_ little. I wouldn't be the same person without him.”

“Fëanor?”

Tyelpë nodded silently. “At least I can trust the others are well. Even if I'm dead to them now.”

“Oh, sweetheart.” Maeglin pulled his head down to lay on his chest and held him, taking the liberty to loosen his hair and run his fingers through it. 

“What did he do to remember them?” Tyelpë asked, his voice slightly muffled.

Maeglin told him about the candles, the cakes, the songs around the fire, the piece of his grandmother's weaving Eöl had brought out and shown him one year. “And we'd recite their names. That was the important part, really.”

“Can we…I mean…I think I’d like that. If you wanted.”

“Yeah. Of course we can.” Maeglin shifted to face him and took his hands. “I haven't…there’s been no one to share this with since…yeah. Do you want to go first?”

“What do I do?”

“Just say their names. However you want.”

Tyelpë nodded and paused, gathering his thoughts. “Míriel,” he began softly. “Finwë. Grandfather…Grandfather Fëanor.” He choked up a little but went on. “Uncle Nolo…” He had a great many names, some Maeglin recognized and some he'd never heard before. “What about…people who aren't dead but who we've lost anyway?” he asked when he'd trailed to a stop.

“This is for us. You can remember anyone you want.”

With a shuddery breath, Tyelpë closed his eyes and whispered seven names. Maeglin squeezed his hands. He pulled one away and wiped his eyes on his sleeve. “Your turn.”

Maeglin had said them earlier, but it felt better to speak them aloud, with someone who cared to listen and receive each one. His mother. His father. The Dwarven mastersmiths he’d worked under as a boy. Warriors of his House who'd fallen defending him and their king on the field of Unnumbered Tears. When he had no more, he looked up at Tyelpë.

“May the Valar watch over them,” he murmured.

Maeglin wasn’t sure how he felt about the Valar—his father had claimed they were mostly useless, and his mother had seldom spoken of them at all—but he appreciated the sentiment. “May they be at peace,” he answered, and Tyelpë smiled at him through the tears still pooling in his eyes.

The courtyard walls and surrounding palace obscured all but a square of stars overhead, but they glittered brilliant and cold. Maeglin felt both strangely numb and like there was too much emotion for his body to contain at once. He wished he could be one of those stars, bright and perfect in the vast, remote sky, untouchable by sorrow and pain. Tyelpë raised a hand to his cheek, and the heat of his fingers brought him rushing back to Middle-earth. Their faces were so close. Maeglin leaned forward, and as their lips gently met, that heat blossomed. He couldn't get enough of Tyelpë's mouth, hot and slick and wet, breathing life into him. Tyelpë’s teeth closed on his lip, and he gasped and clutched his neck to press him closer. Everything he'd felt that night swirled within him, a morass of pain and desire and despair and loneliness, and he thought without this hunger to drive him, he might sink down weeping and not get up again.

Tyelpë retreated a little, catching his breath. “Look, I shouldn’t’ve done that. Let's…I'm sure there's a wine shop still open somewhere. We could—” 

“Tyelpë, shut up.” Maeglin kissed him again, very deliberately so there could be no doubt that he wanted it. Fear seized him halfway through. “Unless you don't want this. Me. Anymore. I’d understand, after earlier. If it's too much now.”

Tyelpë smiled gently. “That's not it. I didn't want to take advantage when you're upset, that’s all.” Black and white paint were smeared around his lips. Maeglin dug in his pocket for a handkerchief and cleaned off first Tyelpë's face, then his own, hoping he'd removed more than he'd smudged. Tyelpë ran his thumb over Maeglin's lips, and he opened them, taking Tyelpë's thumb into his mouth, licking at the pad and scraping slightly with his teeth, never dropping his gaze. 

“Maeglin…!” Tyelpë covered his mouth again with his own, and Maeglin found himself pressed up against the tomb while Tyelpë devoured him. He thought he liked it. It was fitting, somehow. All his life had been shaped by graves, and any joy for him must flare and flicker among them. Maeglin searched out the buttons at Tyelpë's throat and started working his way down, desperate to feel him skin against skin.

“Maeglin. Are you sure…right here?”

“Does it bother you?”

Tyelpë shook his head, moving astride him and rolling his hips against Maeglin's. He was hard, and the contact sent sparks skittering through Maeglin's flesh. “It seems almost right. I think they'd want us to enjoy our lives. Not make this a place only for sadness. Don't you?”

“Mmm. I do.” Every touch and every kiss were wiping out the things he didn't want to feel. He got Tyelpë's leggings open and wrapped his hand around Tyelpë's cock. The way it twitched in his fingers and Tyelpë’s small moan delighted him. Pushing Tyelpë off his lap, he bent and slid his mouth over his length. Tyelpë gasped and tangled his hand in Maeglin's hair, fingers tightening as if it was a struggle not to force him farther down. Not that Maeglin would have minded. He swirled his tongue around the head, licking and sucking, bobbing up and down, not settling into one rhythm for long enough to do more than tease. He liked having his mouth full; he liked the silken hardness of Tyelpë's cock; he liked knowing he was giving pleasure and returning in some small way Tyelpë's infinite kindness.

The fabric over his cock was painfully tight by the time Tyelpë tugged him over and worked his leggings down. Then Tyelpë had him in hand, and all he could think as he bucked into Tyelpë's fist was how perfect it felt and how much he wanted more. What he had with Tyelpë was solid and real and good, and he didn't understand why he couldn't have fallen for Tyelpë instead, why this couldn't be enough for him, why his passion had to continually draw him away toward phantoms and shadows and glimpses of golden hair.

“Baby, you’re crying.” 

Was he? He hadn't realized. Tyelpë stopped him from stubbornly trying to get his cock down his throat and cradled him in his arms. “I didn't mean to. It wasn't because I didn't like what I was doing. I do. I want you.”

Tyelpë dried his face and kissed his forehead softly. “What would you like, then? How can I make you feel better?”

He'd never deserved Tyelpë and he never would. “Fuck me? Please? I want you to be all I can think about.”

“I haven't got any oil.”

“I don't care. I'll get you plenty wet.”

Tyelpë kissed his eyelids, feather-light. “I feel like I shouldn't find you so attractive like this, tear-stained and pleading. You look so ethereal, like Tilion himself come down from the sky.” Maeglin opened his mouth to reply with something that probably sounded better in his head, but Tyelpë stuck two fingers in. “Here. Suck.”

He did, smiling, hoping Tyelpë could see the way his eyes shone with gratitude as he shoved his leggings the rest of the way off. He shivered at the brush of cold air. As Tyelpë worked first one, then another spit-slick finger into his ass, Maeglin hid his face against him, moaning softly in pleasure and pressing kisses to his bare chest. He raised up enough to reach a nipple and flicked it with his tongue, squeezing it between his teeth and quickly soothing away the brief pain when Tyelpë hissed. 

“Fuck, Maeglin!” Tyelpë curled his fingers, and Maeglin lost all coherence as Tyelpë reduced him to a trembling, whimpering mess.

“Please…please…” He wasn't sure what he was asking, whether he needed Tyelpë's cock or to be forced to come right then, but Tyelpë made the choice for him. 

“Get me wet, then, like you promised.” He wrapped Maeglin's braid around his hand, lifting him by it and guiding his mouth to his cock. Maeglin hummed happily around him, and this time he managed to relax his throat and take him all the way to the root. Part of him wanted Tyelpë to hold him there, to see how it would feel when his air ran out and he couldn't escape, but he knew Tyelpë would never let him suffer, and sure enough, he nudged Maeglin up a moment later. Tyelpë's eyes were fierce with want, and Maeglin could sense it rolling in waves from him without even trying to look into his mind. Being so desired was sweeter than any touch, and his cock throbbed in answer. He scrambled over Tyelpë's thighs and held him with one hand, guiding him as he sank onto his cock, bracing himself with his other hand on the carved frieze behind them.

Their little gasped chants of “yes!” and “fuck, more!” mingled as Maeglin opened and was filled. He relished the stretch and the ache as he settled with Tyelpë inside him, and they moved together, Tyelpë clutching his hips and thrusting into him, Maeglin swallowing his cries in a deep kiss as he rode him. His cock was slick with precome, and it slid deliciously over Tyelpë's belly, pressed between them. Ecstasy was fast overwhelming him, and he couldn't have said what pushed him over, just that it was Tyelpë making his body sing, and he never wanted it to end. He came, and it went on and on, pleasure washing through him and leaving him pliant and warm in its wake. His mind went blissfully quiet, and Tyelpë thrust into him deep and hard and then fell still. He rolled his hips, wanting Tyelpë to feel as wonderful as he had, and Tyelpë moaned sweetly until he finally patted Maeglin's butt to stop him and wrapped him in his arms. They sat slumped together, shivery and sated while Tyelpë softened inside him. Drying sweat and the cooling come between them became too much, and Maeglin reached for their clothes.

“Come back to my house tonight?” Maeglin asked shyly. He'd imposed on Tyelpë already, but he couldn't imagine facing his empty bed. “Please? I don't want to be alone.”

“You’re not alone," Tyelpë mumbled. "Y'have me, don't you?” His eyes had drifted shut. Maeglin gave him a little shake. “Hmm? What?” He looked around. “You’re still half-naked. Come on, let's get you home and into bed.”

“You'll stay with me, then?”

“Of course. You need someone to hold you and keep you warm.”

Maeglin hugged him tight. As they left the courtyard, he glanced back and watched the starlight shining on his mother's tomb. He pressed his hand to his heart and followed Tyelpë into the night.


End file.
